


Some things just make sense (and one of those is you and I)

by goldenheadfreckledheart



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, F/M, Fluff, Minor Octavia Blake/Lincoln
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 17:52:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4574079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenheadfreckledheart/pseuds/goldenheadfreckledheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr prompt: 'It's 3 am and I'm trying to sleep in my apartment but you're my neighbor and you're singing so loud and goddamn that's my favorite song but you keep singing the wrong lyrics and idk if I'm angry or amused'</p><p>Title from Still Into You</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some things just make sense (and one of those is you and I)

**Author's Note:**

> I struggled with whether or not I should force my musical taste onto Clarke, and eventually decided just to go for it. If you can’t make your fave characters like your fave band in fanfiction then when can you?

It’s 3 am and her neighbor is singing Paramore. Or at least, she thinkshe is. Whatever it is, he’s singing it  _loudly._

It almost sounds like Ain’t It Fun, except he keeps slurring the lines, so “you can ring anybody’s bell to get what you want” turns into “you can ring my bell…me anytime you want” and “ain’t it good being on your own?” becomes “ain’t it good hmm hmm mmm.”

She briefly wonders if he’s drunk or just really bad at remembering lyrics.

Clarke’s never actually met her neighbor; she’s only been living there a month, and trying to get her feet up underneath her didn’t leave much time for socializing. As far as she had been concerned, he was an excellent neighbor, seeing as he didn’t make an excessive amount of noise. Until tonight.

She used to live in university apartments, before dropping out and vowing to make it on her own—aka, without her parents’ money—so she knows what it’s like to have constantly drunk, loud neighbors. He’s not nearly as bad as they ever were, luckily, and it’s more than a little amusing, hearing his deep voice crooning out one of her favorite songs.

Every time she thinks he’s done though, and that she can finally drift off to sleep, he’ll start up again, and the pillow over her head does nothing to block it out.

When he’s starting in on the chorus for the third time, she reluctantly pulls herself from the warm blankets and shrugs on the fluffy robe that she counts as one of her most prized possessions. Everyone needs a fluffy robe.

She’s too sleepy to be angry as she slips out of her apartment to knock on his door. Blessedly, it only takes a couple knocks for him to stop singing and open the door.

“Look,” she says as the door creaks open, voice tired, “It can’t be said that you music taste isn’t,” she pauses to rub her eyes, “…impeccable. But I’ve got this interview tomorrow that I’d really like  _not_ to bomb. So if you could tone down the singing just a couple decibels, that’d be stellar.” She’s pretty sure she gives him a hokey thumbs up, but she can’t be too sure. Her brain’s only half awake.

“Shit, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize it was this late.” The only thing she’s conscious enough to notice when she looks at him is that he’s taller than she is, but not, like,  _tall._

“No worries,” she waves a hand, then brings it to her mouth to cover a giant yawn, “Anyways, ‘night.” She turns back toward her door, but pauses, swaying a bit on the spot, to add as an afterthought, “Oh. You actually sound pretty good on those high notes, by the way. You should learn the right lyrics though.”

She’s pretty sure he laughs, but she’s already pulling the door shut behind her, eager to crawl back under the covers.

* * *

The next morning, she learns that her neighbor’s a little bit of an asshole.

She sees the note he’s left on her door when she’s leaving for starbucks after her coffee machine dies, which. Really? She’s got the worst luck.

Still, she grins when she sees the words scrawled across the sticky note.

 

‘ _Sorry about the serenade last night. Hope you got enough beauty sleep._

_P.S. I looked over the lyrics and you have to admit I had most of them right._

_–Bellamy’_

She’s still early, so she slips back into her apartment to seek out a sticky note of her own. She pens a quick message, and sticks it to his doorknob on her way out.

 

‘ _Oh, please don’t apologize. Being serenaded, especially with Paramore_ , _is probably the most_ _romantic things anyone could do for me._

_I’m a purist though, so if you’re gonna sing my favorite_ _song, you better get all the lyrics right._

_–Clarke’_

She might have a bit of a weakness for assholes.

* * *

The interview goes well, she thinks. Granted, it’s just for a part-time position at a little bakery down town, but the huge, intimidating owner seems to like her, so she takes that as a good sign.

(She also sees him smiling at one of the employees on and off during the interview, a pretty brunette with striking eyes, so she starts to suspect that he’s actually a giant softie.)

There’s no note on her door when she gets back, which she tries not to feel disappointed about, because, really, she’s known the guy all of five minutes.

Still riding the high from the interview, she toes off her shoes and queues up Proof on her laptop, turning the volume up while she washes the dishes she was too tired to put away the night before.

She’s halfway through belting out the bridge (“so you love me?/ all you gotta do is say yes”) when there’s a knock at the door. Curious, she wipes her soapy hands on a towel and pulls the elastic from her wrist to tie her now frizzy hair back from her face.

She’s still got one hand holding her hair when she swings the door open to reveal the man who…must be her neighbor. She’s having trouble accepting that though, seeing as he’s somehow  _way_  more attractive now that it’s not dark and she’s fully awake.

“Hi,” she says, a little awkward, quickly twisting the elastic around her hair and letting her hands drop to her sides.

He gives her a crooked grin, and yeah, no, nope, that’s not fair. There are freckles scattered across his nose and cheekbones, and she’s done for. (She’s  _always_ had a thing for freckles. She’s pretty sure she realized she liked girls after she couldn’t stop staring at a gorgeous redheaded girl with freckles that spanned her entire face.)

“Hey.” There’s a bit of a laugh in his voice, “So I totally get that you need to show me up, but I’m trying to catch a nap before work, so…”

Her hand flies to her mouth, cheeks reddening, “Oh my god. I’m so sorry.”

He’s smiling though, so she laughs a little—it is pretty funny, this coincidence of theirs—and watches his smile grow wider. There’s something warm in her chest that wasn’t there a moment ago.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s not your fault that I work weird hours.” He pauses, and though he doesn’t quite look at her when he starts talking again, his voice doesn’t waver, “You sound pretty good too, by the way.”

She laughs as he runs his hand through his dark curls in a way that makes her think he’s a little embarrassed, and it’s  _awesome._

“Anyways,” he clears his throat, “I’ll catch you later…Oh!” He turns back to her, hand grabbing the door frame, “How was the interview?”

She grins, more than a little charmed, “Really good I think. Pretty sure the owner liked me, so that’s a plus.” She says it a little flippantly, because why not.

“Yeah, I’m sure you charmed his pants off.” Then, more serious, “I hope you get it.”

She smiles up at him. “Thanks.”

He turns again to go, but she calls him back, “Wait!”

When returns to her door, she’s got one hand stuck out, a little awkwardly, because she should really know her neighbors name, right? “Um. I’m Clarke.”

He takes her hand in his larger one, crooked grin back on his face. “Bellamy.”

She smiles at him for a minute before they drop their hands.

“Okay, okay,” she says, shooing him a little, “Go. Get some sleep.”

He laughs a little, letting himself be shooed, “Bye Clarke.”

She likes the way her name sounds on his lips, and likes it even better that he’s grinning while he says it.

“Bye Bellamy,” she returns, “Good luck with work.”

She hears his “I’ll do my best,” just before his door closes.

* * *

She gets a call from the manager, Lincoln, that afternoon, who tells her that the job’s hers if she wants it. She says yes, of course, and once she’s hung up, she sinks down into her couch and allows herself a sigh of relief. (Because, maybe, just maybe, she can really do this on her own.)

She’s also pretty freaking pumped because baking is kind of her vice. She once baked Wells four dozen cookies to keep herself from crying about the fact that they were going to colleges on opposite sides of the country, so working at a bakery is kind of a dream.

She intends to spend the rest of the day on Netflix, because she totally deserves it, but it turns out she gets an itch for baking when she’s happy too, which is how she ends up pulling out her best sugar cookie recipe and making three batches.

Her kitchen’s a mess and she’s just about to start on the icing when she gets the idea.

She’s outside Bellamy’s door 45 minutes later with the entirety of the first verse and chorus of Ain’t It Fun scrawled in loopy cursive across a plethora of cookies. She somehow manages to raise a hand and knock without dropping all of them.

He doesn’t answer—still at work, she assumes—so she stops back in her apartment to wrap the plate in foil and grab a sticky note.

 

_‘Thought these might help with the memorization. –C’_

When she leaves for her first day at the bakery the next morning, the cookies are gone, and she smiles a little.

* * *

Getting oriented at the bakery doesn’t actually take that long. For now, she’s just acting as Monty’s assistant, following recipes and mixing frosting. When he tries a bite of a recipe for lemon squares that she brought from home, he jokes that she’ll be surpassing him as head pastry chef any time now.

She likes him. She likes them all, actually.

Lincoln lets her choose the music that plays softly through the overhead speakers. Mostly, she assumes, because no one else really cares to do it. She’s totally excited about it though, and sets Spotify to shuffle through Paramore’s entire discography. She kind of thinks her coworkers are going to get sick of her, but Octavia—the brunette from the other day who she’s since learned is dating Lincoln—comes up to profess her love for her, apparently realizing that she really intends to play  _only_ Paramore.

“You, my friend, have excellent taste in music.”

“Oh god, good,” she responds, dusting flower form her hands, “I kind of thought someone was going to demand I play something else.”

“Nah, I’m a huge Paramore fan, even got my brother into them, not that he’ll ever admit it.”

They chat for a few minutes until Octavia runs off  to man the register.

A while later, she’s bringing a tray of brownies out to the display case when she hears a familiar voice.

“Clarke?”

She looks up to where none other than her handsome neighbor is standing across the register from Octavia. A grins forms on her face, unbidden.

“Bellamy, hey!” Then after a second, “This is a weird coincidence.”

“Uh, yeah, tell me about it. This is the place your interview was for?”

“Yep!” She finishes off with the brownies and joins Octavia at the counter, “What brings you here?”

Her co-worker, silent until now, pipes up with a delighted grin, “He’s my brother.”

Clarke kind of gapes for a second and Bellamy’s looking a little sheepish, which she can’t help finding ridiculously adorable, even now.

She’s grinning after a second, the pieces coming together, “Oh, the one who won’t admit he’s into Paramore. It all makes sense now.”

Bellamy wrinkles his nose at her, before turning back to his sister. “Yeah, well this is the girl who made the lyric cookies.” His eyes meet Clarke’s again and she can’t help dissolving into laughter.

Meanwhile, Octavia’s looking between the two like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to her. Clarke just catches her turning to Bellamy with a wicked gleam in her eye and they must have some telepathic sibling thing, because have a second later, Bellamy looks panicked.

“Oh god, O, don’t tell her—”

“Bellamy’s only here because he wanted to get you something in return for the cookies ‘cause he’s helpless at baking!” Octavia all but shouts before dodging her brother’s glare and rushing back to the kitchen, claiming to hear Lincoln calling.

“Honestly, I’m trying to find something witty to say, but that’s just really adorable.”

He’s definitely blushing now, but he leans toward her over the counter, “And making me cookies with the lyrics of the song that necessitated our first meeting isn’t?”

Heat rises to her cheeks and she’s grinning hard, “Okay. Touche…Did you just use ‘necessitate’ in casual conversation?”

He laughs, hand over his eyes, “Oh my god, shut up.”

She wants to say ‘Make me,’ but decides it’s maybe a bit early for that.

“Listen,” he stars after their laughter trails off and she plants her chin on the arm that’s resting on the counter, faint smile still at her lips.

“This might be a little, I don’t know, forward?” He scratches at his ear, “But um, O and I are going to the Paramore show next month,” he rolls his eyes a little, but she sees his smile, “Lincoln was going to come too, but something came up, so we’ve got an extra ticket. If you want it?”

“Holy shit, yes! Of course!”

“Yeah?” he grins at her.

“Yeah.”

“Cool. And um, before then, do you want to get dinner with me sometime?”

She’s probably going to have to stop smiling this much at some point. She pushes forward to kiss his cheek, her smile pressed against his skin. “How about tonight?”

(He plays Still Into You after their first fight and she rolls her eyes and slaps at his chest before he leans down to capture her lips with his.)

**Author's Note:**

> I can't write anything without cheek kisses. This is my design.
> 
> Come hang out with me on [tumblr!](http://www.goldenheadfreckledheart.tumblr.com)


End file.
